Sunshine and Gasoline
by M83
Summary: How trite: Angst and Romance. At least it's not Adam. No, it's about everybody's favorite repressed, sociopathic figure skater. Beware: dark humor and slash. Always a bad combination.
1. tappy's intro

Disclaimer: A lot of stuff isn't mine. The Mighty Ducks just happen to be topping the list right now, along with many things I mentioned in this fic (because product placement is key).

I

Space is one thing. But in a library, everybody can hear you scream.

"Shit, not again!"

The librarian glares at me. That was my official warning. Next time I'd get the boot. I couldn't help it though, my Walkman always chooses the worst possible to time to crap out on me. Right now, I was in the first hour of a five hour study block. Finals were coming up soon and Calculus had never been my thing.

School in general had never been my thing. But overachieving and a perfectionist disposition had screwed me over until I was taking 'honors' this and 'advanced' that. Hey, at least my parents were happy. And if they were content it didn't mattered that I was writhing in perpetual anguish over the fact that my brains were being fried, baked, and broiled. Nervous breakdowns, suicidal thoughts at a moments notice, self-mutilating tendencies: welcome to the world of Kenneth Wu.

My parents were too far away to see that special little side of me. This is what I like to call A Very Good Thing. Example, when the last mid-term grade reports had come out and I'd been doing poorly in a couple of courses they, as my mom so delicately put it, 'cut me off'. See that little plastic Visa Debit card tucked inside my wallet? It's worthless. Wave bye-bye to Kenny's non-existent social life. This boy is staying in for the weekend to study.

So what did I do in a pathetic attempt at revenge? I got careless. Taking three stairs at a time, moping on the roof of the auditorium, and this is the one that nearly broke my arm: running to classes despite that the courtyard was covered in ice. They didn't see that though, my parents just got a phone call from my guidance counselor saying that my grades were improving.

I pull fresh batteries out of my bag and pray these will last longer than a week. Students on scholarships always have the crappiest stuff, go figure. My Walkman needed a rubber-band to hold the batteries in, the display screen was scratch up to the point where I couldn't even read the track time, and don't get me started on the pause/play matrix. This thing was so old, it spat out old batteries like a little kid and broccoli. Adam and his fancy-pants iPod have nothing on me.

"Play, play, play," I quietly pray to the Walkman god, but I doubt that he's listening. "Come on, baby. One more hour. Just one more hour."

There's a clacking noise, then a whirl, and then the music starts up again. The sweet sound of success is Godspeed! You Black Emperor's song Dead Flag Blues.

_"The car's on fire and there's no driver at the wheel  
and the sewers are all muddied with a thousand lonely suicides  
and a dark wind blows  
the government is corrupt  
and we're on so many drugs  
with the radio on and the curtains drawn."_

It's fucking beautiful to my deprived ears. Magic and morphine wrapped up in a neat little package and smartly placed next to my eardrums. Words to live by for the rest of my life. Pathetic? Of course, but look at who you're dealing with. This sort of shit is to be expected.

Someone's tapping on my shoulder. I don't look up from my math book, so my assailant tries a different tactic. She pops her face right into my line of sight and smiles. It's one of those smiles where you know this person should either be on a children's show asking 'how everybody feels today' or heavily medicated. With Julie, I like to think it's somewhere in between.

I let her blab on for a few minutes before I point to my headphones. I give her a smug smile, finalizing the fact that I hadn't heard a word. Tactfully displaying her sadist side, Julie rips them off and gives me another nauseatingly friendly grin. I choose to re-enter the real world with a disgusted sigh.

"Hey Kenny, we need to talk." Julie is a Barbie and the world is her pink-coloured playhouse (accessories sold separately, batteries not included).

I shuffle a few papers around and try to look busy.

"Kenny..." Dot. Dot. Dot. That's a warning. Like with the librarian, I only get one warning. Except this one will end with Law and Order: Crazy, Psychopathic Killing Spree Victims Unit.

Talking with Julie usually means nodding animately while she bitches about the world. I'm up for a little nodding today. "So talk, I'm listening."

"Not now. You have to meet us in the locker room in an hour."

She's always so pushy. "Have to?" Not this time, sister. "I have to study..."

"Please? Will you be there, for me?" As if she means something to me. Then Julie gives me one of her 'sad puppy dog' faces and I know I'll be in that locker room even if the world's ending. Bitch. What'd she mean by 'us', anyway?

"Fine, but only if you help me with this math problem." If math had a face, I'd punch it. Several times. Yeah, I have some issues.

She sits down next to me and for twenty minutes we do anything but math. We talk about drugs, sex, politics, the O.C. How funny it is that most of this stuff seems to be on the O.C. How much the O.C. sucks. How pretty the people are on the O.C. How the O.C. could totally kick Everwood's ass. Our lives are centered around the O.C. but neither of us seem to want to change that. Remember, you're dealing with teenagers. Pathetic, hormone driven, angsty creatures. Seth Cohen is my god.

Finally, Julie remembers that we aren't in California (because that would be too perfect). She checks her watch and makes an excuse to leave.

"Don't forget," she diligently reminds me. "Locker room in forty minutes. And. Don't. Tell. Anybody."

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," I say back just as seriously, ignoring the creepy look she's giving me.

Julie grabs her bag and leaves me musing over the fact that she's just about as blunt as a pair of scissors today. Meaning if Julie wanted to tell me something, she'd just come out and say it. Secret rendezvous, hidden agendas, and special handshakes were never really her thing. There was someone else behind this little meeting, and the hell if I was going to go in unprepared.

(endpartone)

A/N: Ken's a little wacko, but that's the way I like him. There will be slashy goodness, say next part or so.A beta hunt has commenced. Volunteers more than welcome.

Hyvin kiitoksia!


	2. almost violent

II

Following Julie's example, I pack up my stuff and quietly slip out of the library. Some little punk heading for the children's section gets in my way. A head-on collision leaves my books on the floor and a mildly perturbed Ken. The kid starts laughing so I flip him off. He needed a taste of reality. The librarian sees but before she can make a scene, I'm gone. Out the doors and into the mind-numbing cold of a Minnesota October. I exaggerate, of course.

As I stalk across the campus, a conversation I had heard in the library replays itself in my head again and again.

_"So what you doing this weekend?"  
__"Nothin', why?"  
__"Wanna come over to my house? I'm having this early Halloween Party thing. My parents are going to be out of town."_

When you're little like me, it's easy to be invisible to the big hulking football jocks and the slutty-yet-innocent cheerleaders.When they do notice me, they can tell I'm not the kind who'd ever run in their circles. To be fair, I didn't even know these people, yet I'm passing judgments and making stereotypes. It's hard not to though, when I'm seeing the jock awkwardly feel the bimbo up in the library. It's something they'll gloss over when their Accident -artfully named Junior- asks how they met.

I'm a horrible person. Horrible people deserve the rack. And in my case, syphilis too.

I pull out a pack of cigarettes.

"Hey Kenny," Adam says quietly as we pass by each other. He's the only one on the team that calls me Kenny. Correction, he's the only one I'll let call me Kenny. "Don't forget to be in the locker room."

I nod and keep wearily shuffling on. Everywhere I go I keep seeing people I know. The cigarettes are a beacon of light.Everyone wants the Holy Grail today. It's like I'm in some demented video game: hide from Charlie, the Dean, and random history teachers without getting caught. Ahh, the thrills of being a total bad-ass. Dodging across the main court yard has never been this much fun.

There's a monkey on my back and he's screeching in my ear. Ever get that feeling? It's like:Nicotine. Nicotine. Nicotine. I NEED MY NICOTINE FIX, DAMN IT.

Technically there's no smoking on school grounds. BUT according to the resident future lung-cancer sufferers at Eton Hall, the evergreen bushes off to the side of the courtyard are a sort of No Man's Land. They were supposed to be hiding this ugly, gray, concrete building. It was actually a huge bomb shelter. I can't say that McCarthyism never did anything for me.

The junkies love this spot because it's conveniently close to the classrooms. The particularly neurotic can still get their fix every hour without worrying about being late. Let me rephrase that, they didn't have far to walk once they decided to ditch.

You just had to watch out for the grounds-keeper. He'd cultivated these evergreens into six and a half feet tall monstrosities and didn't appreciate 'a bunch of punk-ass kids romping around in the foliage'. The grounds-keeper would get his revenge by spraying for pestilence without checking to see if anyone was there first. True story, happened twice to a friend of mine. Note the dubious 'friend of mine' tag on.

When I push past all the brush, I see there's somebody already there. I light up after we've exchanged cool, collected nods.

"Ken," he says simply.

"Luis," I answer back as I drop my bag on the ground. The monkey has backed off a little, but he's still there.

We stand there for a few minutes, chewing on the ends of our nicotine deathsticks.The silence isn't awkward. It's actually kind of comforting.

It's a special little club me and Luis have. The rules: new Ducks only and you have to smoke. Simple enough, right? Julie wouldn't touch a cigarette to throw it away. Dwayne took everything they had taught us in health class to heart. Every once and a while Russ will stop by, but he talks too much and it's uncomfortable. And Portman, he's too busy smoking something else. So that just leaves the two of us, the repressed figure skater and the social butterfly. I'm not judging Luis because he 'adjusts' himself more than he should, and he's not judging me by the way I occasionally glance around nervously. I'm quietly collecting my thoughts about nothing and everything when he ruins the moment.

"So. Are you going to tell me what's going on, or am I going to have to stand here in the cold until next year?"

"You should wear more clothes if you're cold," I giggle."Layers are key."

"Christ, I'm not going to let you lecture me on fashion," Luis scoffs and raises one of his eyebrows. I wish I could do that. "Besides the fact that you shop at fucking Walmart with Banksie Boy, you're suffering just as much as I am, Mr. Know-It-All."

"Yeah? Maybe I just have the nuts to shut up and take it."

"You?" He laughs, flashing me his pearly-whites. "Your balls froze off a long time ago. It's this damn Minnesota climate-"

"Shut up," I cut Luis off. I throw myself on to him, adrenaline, lust, and a little bit of nicotine rushing through me. Luis isn't too much taller than me, so kissing him is incredibly easy. We're standing very close, body to body, boy to boy.

Our cigarettes have fallen to the ground to eventually smolder into ash. Mementos of our little stay here. Next time I come back, I'll see the buds and remember how his lips tasted like a little like strawberries and his tongue tasted like every Christmas candy I'd ever eaten. Surreal.

My mind's back to everything and nothing and how fantastic it would be if the world would just end now. Yeah, this is all just from a kiss. His hands are mussing my hair and mine are on his waist and heading down. The-kiss-that-could-be-a-whole-lot-more. I'm looking deep into his brown eyes when the tips of my fingers reach the elastic waistband of his track-pants.

Should I? A thousand lonely thoughts and a night to remember...except it isn't night. It isn't even dark out. But it's the moment that matters. I slide my hand first under his track-pants, then his boxers to his warm skin. Suddenly, he stops kissing me.

Luis shoves me away so hard I trip and fall backwards. I just lay there on the ground. Funny thing, I'd been expecting that.

Luis is afraid of being dominated. What I did shook him up a little. There's more to it than just that, but it's nothing we could talk about. He says where and when we'll 'be together' and he makes the first move. I'm supposed to shut up and take it. I'm his little bitch-boy, a fuck-toy. The rhymes are my trippy excuse of a defense mechanism. It's how I make up for the fact that he's with with me only because he wants to respect his girlfriend's vow of abstinence. I know this and I'd still eat out of the palm of his hand. How sweet.

"So what was that about?" I ask, trying not to care that I already know the answer.

Luis plops down next to me.

"I could say the same thing." He pulls out another cigarette, lights up, and casually smiles at me. "Your hand was cold."

This is the closest thing to an apology I will ever get from him. And I cling on to it. That's my apology. That, and Love is Lovely. I move around so my head's resting on his chest. I sigh, "Baby."

"Later, baby," Luis says. I'm not sure if he's either mocking me or half-assing affection. Whatever it is, it makes me feel nice inside.

Don't worry, I'm still normal. I've lost a lot of sleep thinking about it. He fucks me and we don't appear in public together. I put up with it because I didn't want to get kicked out. The school board has a Conservative Agenda, there's no denying it. I've been labeled 'Affirmative Action' twice in my life, first with the Ducks and then for getting into Eden. Affirmative Action had done wonders for me. I didn't want to go back on all that now, did I? So this was serious cloak and dagger shit. I couldn't help being in love, though.

"And now," he says smoothly, "We will continue the conversation."

"Huh?" Lost in Thought: Danger Ken Robinson!

"You still haven't answered my first question. Why are all the little Duckies meeting in the locker room?" His right hand is mussing my hair up again. Normally I'd strangle anybody that got too close, but Luis, he's different. He's special to me.

"That's Question of the Day material," I say absently.

"Don't do Question of the Day, you little shit." He raps my head with his knuckles. "That's Goldberg's thing."

I frown. "Yeah, well he never asks me, so I can do what ever I want." It's true. He asks everybody but me. Even some non-Ducks like Linda, Scooter, and even Connie's boyfriend.

"Poor wittle Kenny-poo. Ignored and forgotten in the corner."

"Asshole," I reply bitterly. I reach up and swat his hand away from me.

"Prick."

"Jerk."

"Bastard."

"Fuckhead."

"Fucker of the Fuckhead."

This was going no where. I sit up and check my watch. "Fifteen minutes until we must make a sacrifice to the Demagogue Duck."

He snorts, "I thought I told you to quit using big words. We're not in school, who you trying to impress?"

I frown again and try to ignore his comment, "You got any breath mints left?"

"Yeah, they're in my pants, hold on."

"Perv."

Luis gets up and walks over to his backpack. He unzips it and pulls out a pair of jeans. "See, these are my pants." He points at his track-pants. "These are my track-pants. You're never doing my laundry Ken." He produces a white lifesaver and tosses it to me.

"Thanks," I lie. I leave the blue wrapper sitting next to my old cigarette. Another piece of trash is another fond memory of my time with dear Luis. "How do I look?" I ask, standing up and brushing off loose dirt from my clothes.

"Like you've just had crazy, wild sex with a hot Latino man."

If it's not the sex, it's the humor that draws me to him. "So you've met Ricardo?"

"Shit," Luis swears vehemently. "Not funny. Are you cheating on me? Are you trying to ruin what we have?"

Is he... serious? I'm either his bitch or his babe. Haven't figured out which it is today. "Ahh, no?"

"Good, 'cause I like you. I like you so much, I'm never going to let you go." Luis crosses the few feet between us and gives me a big bear hug. He IS joking. I can tell because he's trying to feel up my ass.

"Why is it always about the sex?" I shot back disgustedly.

"Hormones man, I can't help it." He turns me around and pushes me away from him. Gently, this time. "Go socialize. Talk to Adam. Tell him to quit being Adam."

I snort and shook my head, "What, you mean a lonely, depressed, self-imposed outcast? We need to get that boy on Prozac."

"Exactly," Luis pats my head fondly. "Viagra too, from what I've heard."

"What have you heard?!"

Luis, he knows stuff. And sometimes if I ask real nice,he'll tell me.

"Nothing, nothing. Well," he smiles a little and bites his lip. "Well, it is something. Later though. Get to the locker room.You don't want to be late do you? Don't you have a reputation to uphold as the Ducks' good little boy?"

"Maybe." Do good boys eavesdrop? The stupid conversation between the jock and the cheerleader was still spinning around my head. "Hey, is there a party this weekend?"

"There's always a party," Luis replies in amusement. "You just have to know where to look, babe. Maybe if you quit spending so much time ignoring the rest of the student body, you'd get invited to a few."

"That's harsh," I consider his words. "But true."

He smiles a little bit more.

I shrug. "I don't know, maybe if you'd get me in..."

"_Una problema mi amigo_. You know the rules."

I mentally cringe. Despite how much I love him, I still think Luis is annoying when he is 'en español'.

"The rules suck," I say looking down. Especially this one. The whole 'not allowed to appear in public together' thing. It's starting to get on my nerves.

He shrugs. "But they're still the rules."

"And they still suck." I try my best to walk away calmly. And I notice something.

He doesn't try to stop me.

(endparttwo)

A/N: Yay for sakurakasugano and Queen of the Cake-eaters, my reviewers! See, if you review you get to have your screen name published in my story. It's a real honor (nudge nudge, wink wink). Oh, and if you didn't catch it, Ken is in love with Luis, but Luis... he is a bastard. Sorry, but he is for this story. The sheepy plot plays out from there (and with sexy results!).

Warning: I've decided to hell with the word count and now I'm writing to my heart's content. That's why this is so bitchin' long.


	3. silver screen, shower scene

III

The guy's locker room is the most disgusting facility at Eton Hall. It is a foul buffet of all things slimy, creepy, and contagious. Bacteria, both kinds of lice, fungus, algae, even STDs' run rampant in this sick pageantry of micro-biotic life. I've heard of guys catching crabs just by looking into the locker room. The floor is always wet no matter where you step, so mold grows over night. A biology class once took a couple of samples as a joke, but they ended up discovering ringworm in their petri dishes.

There was a big scandal after that one. A PTA meeting was held, a couple of angry parents had to be restrained, a few board members were fired. The Dean did eventually get around to covering it up. Lets just say that money was exchanged, but it didn't go towards improving the locker room. The parent-elected health inspector got a new Camero.

If our 'little petting zoo of magic' doesn't scare you off, the smell will. It reeks of sweat, garbage, rancid milk, and Swedish _lutfisk_ all put in a blender and left out to dry. Yeah, it's even worse than the Bashes room, but you have to remember that it has had decades worth of experience.

Naturally, this is where I spend a lot of my time.

Less than half the ducks are even here and it's five minutes before this mysterious meeting is suppose to begin. Figures. I scan the room for the hardcore Duck cheerleaders, Adam and Julie. They're the types who are on the top of the pyramid, quacking their hearts out and promoting zany times, roller field-trips to the mall, and campfire sing-a-longs. That was so three years ago.

Right now the Dovetailing Duo are sharing a bench and talking in hushed tones. Neither of them see me and I don't feel like...what's the word? Intruding.

See, if Julie is 'Pretty in Pink' Barbie, Adam is her 'Clinically Depressed' Ken (razors, ambulance, and fake blood sold separately, batteries included!). Everyone knows that they should be together. They're always talking, meeting together, exchanging slips of paper. Julie says they're just doing homework, but I've seen too much daytime TV to fall for that. What, did she think I was born yesterday? And maybe if Adam ever got over himself and Julie stopped seeing the world through her rose-tinted glasses, it would work. Therapy would help too. Lots and lots of therapy.

But back to me, because I am a horrible self-centered creature. Remember that whole 'teenager' gag from before? That applies here too. I feel incredibly stupid standing alone in the doorway. Not quite in, but not quite out. I am your favorite boy band at the turn of the millennium. These are just the way things go with me.

I want to sigh dramatically and start speaking in tongues to my invisible pal Perry. It's not that I usually demand attention when I walk into a room, but that whole thing with Luis is really bumming me out. Right now I'm feeling particularly helpless. Like a deer frozen in a tractor trailer's headlights wondering if he left the oven on. Mixing phrases is my daily distraction. No, I'm more like a Ken that's wondering why he lets people trample all over him and not just figuratively.

Oh, there we go. Julie has finally spotted this poor lost little lamb. We've gone from deer to sheep. What next, poultry?

She grins and gives me a cheery thumbs up. I feel like I'm in a Crest advertisement. Or maybe that commercial for herpes. You know the one that starts out with that woman climbing a mountain and ends with a sunset and a voice over warning about the side affects? If you listen close, they mention diarrhea twice.

Something is wrong with me today. I think I'm broken. Do you think that if I took myself back to the hospital, they would give my parents a refund?

I give Julie a nod. One of those unwholesome, 'I hear dat' nods today's youth seems to be so fond of. I'm not even going to attempt at smiling. My face is frozen in a look of pure, unadulterated disinterest. Besides, Julie is grinning and waving enough to cover the both of us. I've met her approval: I showed up. Yay me. I wish I was that easily inspired. Don't get me wrong, I can be happy. Just not right now. Or today. Or this week. Maybe when I get my hands on one of Julie's Grandee Lattes Del Ritalin. That'd be fantastic.

Fuck. I want to turn around and leave. I want to go back to having limited amounts of fun. I want to patch things up with Luis. I want straight A's. I want cake.

It's so hard being known as the dependable one. Good ol' Ken, he wouldn't ditch his friends for cake. Goldberg would. Averman has. The Bash Brothers prefer pie, but that's another matter-what the _fuck _am I thinking about? Somehow, the rational part of my brain had slipped away unnoticed. All I have left now is this whiny, bitch, angsty side to contend with. Yeah, angsty isn't a word, but Kengst doesn't quite roll off the tongue.

That's when I notice that I'm not the only wallflower at this little jaunt. There is another huddled mass of flesh sitting by himself in a particularly dark, damp corner. Sweater vest, scarf, a weird hat - I'll give you three guesses who my new-found soul mate is. That's right ladies and gents, Ken has found someone he can stand next to and make strained, one-sided conversation with. You're my hero, Guy Germaine!

I carefully pick my way across the room, stepping over discarded gym bags, random pieces of hockey gear, and the odd, bloated-with-moisture textbook. There's an unspoken rule among the Ducks that you don't touch anything that isn't yours. Even if it means having to do a wild aborigine-esque dance across the locker room. Jockstraps and hockey pads and helmets are my own personal land mines.For once, I'm glad to be Ken and an idiot and a little intoxicated off of synergy. I look incredibly ridiculous.

That is, until Goldberg, Averman, and Russ barge in to the room and nearly knock me over. Then I look worse. I spin and spin and try to keep my balance while standing on one foot.

The Terrible Trio are making wild hand gestures and talking a mile-a-minute about (what are the chances of this?) pie. I was just thinking about pie and cake.

A small part of my brain shuts down and I force myself to ignore them and their fantastical descriptions of a pie-eating contest. Another part of my body had already claimed the right to this afternoon's entertainment. My tiny beating heart was set on awkward conversation with Guy, and that was exactly what I was going to get.

Inch inch inch. I eventually find myself standing next to him, no thanks to the hapless bastard who dumped out the entire contents of his gym bag on the floor (I'm looking in your direction, Conway...). I clear my throat. No good. It's too dry, it's like I'm trying to literally hack my words up. I cough and try again.

"Hey," I say. This is my great introduction.

Guy is sitting on the floor (ew ew ew), his knees pulled up against his chest. I don't think he sees me. Daydreaming? It's hard to say. I don't usually watch people when they are sleeping or whatever.

I wait. I wait some more. Avermen screeches in the background and something goes flying though the air. A couple of generic Ducks enter the locker room. I shift on my feet, but doesn't seem to help break the tension that is building up around me. Finally, when I was about to call it quits and go back to 'Frisco:

"Hey, back."

Huzzah! "What are you doing?"

"I dunno. Sitting." Guy gives me a look. "Why?"

Because I am Ka-razy Ken and I want to stalk you. But that wouldn't be very nice to say out loud.So I don't. I make a noise in the back of my throat that I hope sounds dismissive but friendly. Is that even possible?

"Mind if I join you?" I ask, against my instincts. That is, wanting to graduate with all four limbs attached and free of the pox.

He throws me a bone: "I don't care. Free country."

I am somewhat relieved. The Guy who never talked to anybody that didn't wear pigtails or a C on their jersey (and not C for Conway) hadn't snubbed me. I pick a less-moldy looking place on the floor and pop a squat. That sounds so disgusting.

"Hey, I like your hat," I make polite conversation.

"What about it?"

Well, besides the fact that it's vomit-orange, has three tassels (_tassels. _I can not stress that enough. TASSELS., and seems to be eating his head.

"It's nice."

"What ever," he snorts and continues to stare blankly ahead.

Mmmm... who knew Guy could be so damn intelligent? We chill for a while. Occasionally, Guy would look up at me, almost surprised. Surprised that I was still sitting there, surprised that I wasn't harping on him about his deteriorating mental abilities, surprised that I was Asian. I don't know.

"Sign my cast?" he asks/tells me.

Guy broke his arm at a party before school started. He can't play hockey anymore, but that's the least of his worries.

"Sure," I say behind my window of false confidence. He gives me a pen and I awkwardly scribble my name on his green cast. It's surprisingly blank.

"Hey, don't freak out or anything, okay?" he asks/tells me.

Freak out about what?

That is when Guy removes his hat and I notice how his hair isn't blond anymore. I am speechless. Or rather, Averman steals my words and yells them in a pitch ten times high and louder than I could ever manage.

"Guy! What'd you do to your hair? It's freakin' pink!"

Yes it has, in fact, turned a lovely shade of pink. Guy shoves his hat back on, but it's too late. The vultures are descending.

Do I flee or fight? Honestly, I am roadkill. These guys would rip me apart if I tried to defend him. I move to get up, but that is when Guy looks at me. Gives me one of those pleading puppy-dog looks. He must have been talking to Julie. I stay. I'm miserable, but I stay. He smiles.

Goldberg smugly makes a conclusion. "So, you've decided to get back to your roots? Having fun romping around with the fairies?" A conclusion that makes me glad I'm so far in the closet, I'm finding Christmas presents. (ftnt1)

This sounds harsh. It is harsh. It is a horrible thing to say. But Guy has been blacklisted by all of Eton's top society, and then people who were somewhere in the middle, and then people who were suppose to be his friends. It's acceptable, it's high school. And remember that deteriorating Duck Spirit I was telling you about earlier? Yeah, I've just realized it's completely gone. Hostile. Intolerance. Gay bashing. These are words to post up on your refrigerator.

That party where Guy broke his arm, that was when he came out. He'd been caught literally in the closet with another guy. People had been so weirded out, they'd starting throwing punches. One of those fists had assisted him down a flight of stairs.

But that was months ago. Connie had broken up with him (of course). Nobody went near him, not even the freshman. He was shit.

And me, being the suicidal loony that I was, had wanted to talk. Maybe that was a mistake, now that I think about.

Whoops.

(endpartthree)

mmmm.... everything is whacko. sorry about that.i know i have many a grammar/spelling errors. I just wanted to get his posted up. new years party to go to. and that footnote, yeah that was totally stolen from family guy. sorry about the lack of dialouge too. but hey, ken is a quite character. i think he thinks more than he talks. this story will eventually go somewhere, i just needed to wrap things up really quickly at the end there.

props to troublesometwin2 and Ladybug11 and Rachel for understanding my craziness enough to give me a review.


	4. somebody hates you

**I'm not dreaming of you**

I've dug myself into a hole. There's no way out. I'm trapped. Not in limbo, in life. I'm sad. So terribly sad. Seventeen, horny, and totally alone in a crowded room.

They are standing around us and looking at Mr. Pink. Guy blinks at me. I kick at the floor. The circle is complete.

"What's up?" Guy asks, semi-confused, semi-wasted. His face is puffy and he looks like an owl. A sensitive, sallow, drugged-out owl. Very sagacious; kind of toxic. That's not new. I just couldn't tell before. I was too concerned with me and him, but not _us_. This is the guy that's suppose to have my back.

Avermen shrugs nervously. Goldberg and Russ sort of stare. I'm impatient. I want something to happen. Here. Now.

To someone else.

The door swings open, but before I can see who –or what- my savior is the lights go out. Even in the darkness I can't slink away gracefully. I mentally call myself a coward, but I also mentally slap that side of me that's doing the name calling.

If I were bigger, I'd be a bully. The kind that beat kids up for lunch money or for looking at their 'girl' funny. Problem is, I'm not big and I don't have the charisma that should make up for it. You'll never see directing a posse. I'd be the one hanging on to the coattails of their success. Aye de mi. Spanish is infectious. Note to self: stop skulking around with Luis.

"Quack, quack, quack..." It has to be Charlie. He's deluded enough.

"What's going on?"

"Get off my foot, Adam!" That's Julie. Disgusted, confronting, ready to strike. Stay away from her when she's angry. I once saw her snap a rabid clown's neck with her bare hands. It was a clown puppet, but that's still kind of scary when you think about it.

"It's not me." Passively, politely, and Adam. "I'm over here."

"Someone turn the lights back on!"

Somewhere from deep inside a labyrinth of gray matter, a synapse fires, a chemical lets loose, an axon hits the pedal and a thought strikes. _Get the fuck out of there._ I am a highly skilled individual. I should be able to figure this out.

"It was Professor Plum, in the observatory, with the lead pipe!"

"You have all just witnessed a Happening-"

"Shut up, Avermen. Quit watching those stupid British shows."

Someone grabs at my arm. I feel their rough hands around my forearm and try to decide. Friend or foe? Either way the only option I have is to consent and give up.

Luis has more tacit than this. He's fast, but he's not that fast. "Come on, hurry up," the mysterious enigma hissed into my ear. I hang on to every word, picking at the phrasing and articulation like an old scab.

My body goes limp. I am easily dragged across the dark room without making a sound. Same old, same old. It's not like I've ever cared before.

"Where are you taking me?" I breathe.

No answer. I retaliate. I stop.

But it doesn't matter because he's stopped too. The showers, I guess. It's secluded enough. There's a small changing room connecting it to the locker area, and I had heard both of the doors being locked as we passed by. It smells funny. Funnier than usual I mean. Some substance that I just can't place.

"Luis?" I say, but not loud enough for anyone to hear and take offence at. I am guessing blindly because I am very much so. I squint at the darkness, like it will help. Reveal your true form.

"Ar-ar-are you my friend, Ken? Can I trust you? Can you trust me?"

Spill your guts, "Sure." Still no clue.

"I've been thinking…"

"Uh-oh. Those are some dangerous words." I don't even give myself a tiny, nervous giggle. Pathetic.

"I made up my mind. I'm going to do it."

I stare at the direction I think his voice is coming from. "Do what?" I ask, but I think I already know.

"You know what."

I have an AP European History Test I need to be studying for. Better make this fast. "Let's say that I forgot. Could you maybe please remind me?" I beg, even adding in a please.

"No."

His voice is tiny, like it's coming from far, far away. Someplace secluded and green and not our hell-in-paradise, Eden. The echoes nearly swallow me whole.

"Don't," I say, sounding just a little panicky. I need to get out but the door has disappeared. My hands fumble at the wall. Tile, tile, tile. No wood. No door.

"I have to."

Look, there's only about a hundred and forty days left until school is over. You can do whatever you want with your life then. We'll graduate. You never have to come back here again if you don't want to. You never have to see the team again. Don't fuck with my life. Don't ruin everything. Walk away from this and get into counseling, for Christ's sake. Everybody in hockey is psychotic, what makes you think you're so damn special? You're not the only one with problems. Quit moaning and bitching and make something out of yourself, I think.

I don't actually say that. It would be very, very out of character. Stepping up, taking a stand. I chew on the side of my mouth and spit out the most asinine thing I can think of:

"Did you turn the lights off, Guy?"

"Who me? No. I think it was Portman."

That would explain why the door had crashed open with such force.

Why am I the one who always gets stuck in dark rooms with loonies? I blame myself. And Wal-Mart. You always have to drag down a big cooperation with you when you're going to crash and burn. And I didn't even know how bad it was going to be this time.

"Don't do it," I say again. I lace my voice with confidence and a million apologies for anything that's ever gone wrong.

There is a metallic clicking noise. A small, orange flame bursts into existence near where I thought Guy was. I back away until I am pressed up against the moldy, mildewed tiles.

Yeah, that's it. I've finally placed that odor. That pungent, chemical odor I thought was out of place, but only because it was. Gasoline.

Guy holds the lighter up to his face. My eyes follow the tiny flame. A cigarette lighter and Irony cross my mind. I was going to give up smoking today. Tomorrow. Soon. Maybe. Damn it, Guy. And what exactly inspired this impromptu cry for help?

"Why?" I must know. It's killing me. Slowly, gently, sensibly.

"You know why."

He just assumes that we're on familiar terms. To quote a very obscure -but not in the way you're thinking- movie, "Nobody really knows anybody".

And I am _really_ too late. He's _really_ going to do it. But what he _really_ doesn't understand is that I _really _don't care why he is. I just want to know why he felt he needed to drag me into his downward spiral when I don't even know him.

Guy gets it. The stoner, he understands. He mumbles an apology. Not my fault. I just sort of stumbled into his plans. But it's a good thing. Tell Connie he's sorry. Tell Charlie he can have his stereo.

I feel so drained, but I'm actually all right. I listen to him. I hear. All right, all right, all right, all right.

There. No. Not there. There. Door handle. I palm it, fumbling with the lock.

He's _really_ going to do it. Drop the lighter. The gasoline.

What I'm doing, in sex, they call it Coitus Interruptus: pulling out before ejaculation. Nobody's ejaculating, but something is definitely exploding. The lock clicks open.

"I'm sorry," Guy apologizes again. I can just barely see his eyes, shinning in the darkness. Kind of empty, kind of sad. Kind of… desperate, with nothing to live for. Anyway, it doesn't make sense, I'm thinking.

I get out just in time.


	5. block party, to be in love

V

Everything is pitch black yet again, huge surprise. My face is an itching, burning, putrid mess. My hands fly up and I touch yards and yards of cotton bandages. I rip them off and suddenly everything is searing bright white.

"Your blindness," she explains, "is only temporary. We think the explosion made you hit your head, causing a minor blood clot around the part of the brain that helps you see." She's calming yet tactical. It's the voice of someone who is being nice, but only because her job makes her.

I feel a hand, warm and soft, on my arm. The touch is gentle and caring, belonging to the female voice I assume is my nurse. She rolls the bandages back around my head. The universe is black again. Hello, darkness.

There is uncertain, hesitant silence. "I'm afraid you've been in a coma, for a little over two weeks. It was nothing serious. We're assuming it was just a bad reaction to the drugs…"

The fuck, it's nothing serious! I bolted upright. I ached. Two weeks in a bed takes away a lot.

I could hear the nurse swallow. Obviously she had anticipated my reaction. "Twenty days. It's not like this hasn't happened before…"

She went on, citing facts and cases, scientific trivia, blah blah blah. The bullshit rolled off her tongue so well, I realize, because it was a scripted responses. She's dealt with so many of these kinds of cases. I probably don't even have a face, just a chart with numbers and prescriptions.

Where the fuck am I?

The nurse continues in her voice. She calmly explains that I am in the Children's Hospital of Minneapolis. My condition is stable, no worries, no problems, no internal bleeding, I might want to check out the gastroenterology ward while I'm here, it's all routine...

As she drabbled on, I fell back asleep, not knowing where I'd end up next.

...later…

I wake up and I can see. The bandages are gone and replaced by a fierce blend of texture, perspective, and form. Shapes are re-defined. Lines are clear. Light and color are both present. Order is restored to my body. I am invincible again. This is a beautiful feeling and for a minute I don't care about anything.

"Hey little Bash, are you alright?" Portman prompts from the sidelines.

Yeah, they're all here. Fit into my tiny hospital room, smashed around the bed and ogling down in that heart-heart-heart condition called love. Visiting hours do not apply to the Ducks.

Of course I'm alright. I can see again.

In careful preparation I wrap my fingers around the remote. I'm supposed to use it to call the nurse if I'm ever in need of assistance. Like maybe if I choke on that solid applesauce they serve.

Julie smiles. "So how do you feel?"

My throat is like sandpaper. When I open my mouth I expect dust to fly out.

On cue, Goldberg holds a Dixie cup up to my mouth. The water sloshes out the corners and dribbles down my chin. Connie follows up with a napkin. I give both of them a half-hearted nod.

"Grand," I say lifelessly. Holden Caulfield must have chased me in my dreams the other night.

"You've missed a lot of games," says Charlie, trying to cheer me up. Great. Hockey. Just what I want to be thinking of right now. Adam irritably pokes him in the ribs for me.

Fulton whispers something to Charlie that I'm guessing was along the lines of "he's in the freakin' hospital. Have some tacit for once, man."

That's when I notice there's one less Duck than there should be.

God flips a switch on inside my brain, but the connectors are jammed. Only some of it comes back. I can remember bits and pieces. I remember the library, I remember Luis, and I remember the blackout. But once the lights turned off, apparently so did my brain.

"What happened to Guy?" I ask, ignoring the acidic taste in the back of my mouth. "Where is he?"

The Ducks glance at each other, shuffling their feet. I'm more than just left out, I feel like I'm in a completely different time zone.

Charlie clears his throat, and at first can't form the words. But he has to because he's the captain. "Ken. Guy- he's dead."

"How?" I'm not afraid to ask. I don't think we can get any more dramatic than this.

Julie frowns, a first for her. "Don't you remember?"

"No." I look down at the remote in my hand. My thumb is urgently pressing the 'nurse call' button.

Charlie sighs, "We were actually sort of hoping that you could tell us. All we have is the police report to go by." He gives me the details, and I listen patiently.

Oh sweet goddamn. My brain consults its psychologist, who tells me 'why the fuck do you believe that delusional bullshit?' My consciousness asks how the hell I could forget what happened. And then almost as an afterthought, asks why I don't care.

I don't answer and they don't force me. I'm traumatized, I need some space. We make small talk about safe topics. The sexual preference of certain classes, hospital food, sex. After an eternity the nurse responds to my call for help. She throws them out, Ducks or not.

So now I sit in my bed, blind to the world, but no longer actually blind. Maybe all the medication they've been pumping into me has had an unexpected side effect. Warning: may cause cold-hearted bastardization. I spend the night thinking about this. As light slowly creeps out of my room I begin to redefine the world.

(endpartfive)

A/N: sighness. it's been a while. i'm disappointed with myself. mundos propos to Rach, sweetmeredith, glum n dumb skittery, Paulkariyasgurl, rach again, punk teacher, ja stalkystar. thanks for all the lovely reviews. it makes me more happy than even i know. Kenniethie rules!

oh, and paulkariyasgurl, i totally know what you're saying about the ipods and OC and whannot. but like, it's like, i dunno what it's like. it doesn't really matter in this section because unlike some shows such as miami vice (where 80s culture was very involvededed), duckies can happen anywhere, anytime. (like an orgy, but lets not get into that).

next update a lot quicker, with more krazy ken, and with a lesslong AN.


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